Free All Days Are Night by Peter Stamm Page A

concentration, the attention Hubert gave her, and the gentle touches with which he coaxed her into different positions. By the time it was twelve and she had to go, there was a whole heap of sketches on the floor next to the easel.
    Tomorrow the same time? asked Hubert. And please be sure to wear something different.
    When Gillian arrived in the studio the next morning, the previous day’s sketches were taped up on the wall. Again, Hubert helped her out of her coat. She wore a tightly fitting short skirt, sleeveless top, and dark stockings.
    He had decided on a pose overnight. He set Gillian in an uncomfortable straight-backed cane chair and asked herto cross her arms. He took her right hand and put it on her left knee, and put the left on her right thigh.
    Sit up straight, he said. How does that feel?
    Not comfortable, said Gillian. Any chance of a cushion?
    Hubert shook his head. We mustn’t let you be too comfortable, otherwise you’ll get that self-satisfied look on your face again.
    This position feels stupid, said Gillian. I’d never sit like this.
    So much the better, he said. Before he began, he set an egg timer for forty-five minutes. When it goes off, we can have a break, he said.
    He went up to Gillian again and tweaked her clothes. He hardly spoke while drawing, but his facial expression changed continually, sometimes he looked angry, then suddenly he brightened. He drew his eyebrows together, looked intensely focused for a while, then relaxed again. Gillian looked out the window, where there was a huge mound of gravel, presumably spoils from some sort of dig. Behind it was a wooded slope. The sky was overcast. In spite of the uncomfortable position, Gillian’s thoughts started to wander, as though the cramped attitude evoked certain memories. She thought about her early days at drama school, her strickenness when the teacher had criticized her. You’re acting — that was his refrain — be yourself, show yourself. Only when she was completely exhausted, despairing and close to tears, did the teacher sometimes say, now that was the real you. Just for a moment.
    Gillian was jolted out of her memories when Hubert asked her to please concentrate.
    What does that mean? She asked. I thought as far as you’re concerned I might as well be a milk jug or a bowl of fruit.
    A jug doesn’t look out the window, he said. You’re dissolving.
    When the egg timer rang, they took a short break. Gillian went to the bathroom, which was at the other end of the passageway. It was dirty, and even though the window was open and it was freezing cold in the tiny space, the stink was sickening. When she returned to the studio, Hubert had replaced the board with a prepared canvas and was in the process of mixing colors and getting brushes lined up. She walked up and down the room, stretching her legs.
    All ready? he asked finally and wound the egg timer again.
    She sat down. He adjusted her attitude and ran his hand over her hair to smooth it. Gillian settled down to watch Hubert paint. He had the brush out, and to judge by his sweeping movements he was painting the outlines.
    It comes and goes, he said. Painting from photographs is definitely easier. Then he stopped talking; a little later he swore. It’s not possible to render a three-dimensional object on a flat canvas.
    By the object do you mean me? asked Gillian.
    I don’t even know what makes people try, he said, ignoring her. I only know I can’t paint what I see. It would be better just to look at people instead of painting pictures of them.
    So why do you do it?
    He groaned.
    Gillian imagined a museum with empty walls. People walked through the rooms, stopped in front of one another, took a step back, circled and scrutinized each other.
    Hubert snapped his fingers. Hello? Anyone home?
    The worst were the first few minutes after each break. Each time Gillian would think she couldn’t possibly hold her pose for another forty-five minutes. Her mouth was dry, she needed to